Running Stitch
by Sonnenkoenigen
Summary: Johnny is running.


He goes to his room, strips off his work clothes, and pulls on shorts, a light shirt, a pair of heavy socks, and the first pair of athletic shoes he's ever owned. He stretches, as he's seen the Exorcists do before they train, then he goes outside and begins to run.

The first time he went out, he thought was going to die. His pace was barely faster than a brisk walk, and a few yards into it he got a stitch in his side. At first he thought he'd injured himself, but when Nurse told him what it was, and that he could avoid it by avoiding strenuous exercise, the next day he went out again and ran harder.

It's funny. The very thing Johnny was running from when he came to the Order is the thing that saved him once he got there. As a child, he hated the long hours at the cutting table trying to steady his hands while his father looked over his shoulder, new criticism always on his tongue. The family, his father used to say, had a reputation to maintain, and a dreamer like Johnny wasn't going to ruin it.

Johnny didn't so much ruin it as abandon it, finding refuge in his school books. He was good at that, the top of his class, and it was something his father couldn't criticize because once Johnny reached his sixth year, his father could no longer follow his studies. It didn't improve their relationship any. When Johnny was admitted to university early, his father stood by, indifferent, while his grandmother wept with pride.

He was surprised when the Black Order recruited him, even more surprised when they jumped at his tailoring skills. The hours he spent working with his father's delicate, expensive fabrics made it easy for him to handle the temperamental synthetics created for the Exorcists' uniforms, and his impulse toward design, discouraged by his conservative father, turned out to be another asset. The uniforms were distinctive, fit well, and wore well, setting Johnny apart from previous tailors. For once in his life, he was almost worth the trouble he caused.

If there had been more Exorcists, Johnny might have ended up sewing full-time, but because there were so few, his time in the workshop became a refuge from the insanity of the Science Department. Between Komui and Reever, the filing system was a mess, they had to listen to non-stop arguing, and nobody got more than four or five hours of sleep.

Johnny's workshop was small, but it was quiet, and he didn't get tired as quickly there. He worked with a meticulous care that rivaled his father's, drafting patterns, pressing fabric, tracing, pinning, basting, and sewing. It was nice to be alone for a while, and to have task that had a tangible result. When he was finished, he went back to his desk to turn coffee into theorems until he was too exhausted to hold a pencil anymore, but he brought with him a small sense of accomplishment. He'd made something unique, something useful, something that might protect someone who was more valuable than he was.

The Order was like a garment held together with a running stitch, kept in its shape by a single thread. Then Allen showed up, cut the thread and pulled, and now Order is coming apart at the seams.

Johnny watched the monitor with the others as Allen climbed the cliff, wondering if this strange kid with white hair and General Cross's golem would fall off, thus ending everyone's fevered speculation. He didn't, and it meant that Johnny pulled an all-nighter getting a uniform ready because the new guy was going on a mission in the morning.

It wasn't until a few weeks later that Johnny really met Allen, who stumbled into the baths after a mission, bone-weary and with a bruise the size of a fist on his upper arm. Even still, he smiled at Johnny as he took a spot in the hottest part of the pool, not far from where Johnny was trying to force his body to wind down after another forty-eight hours without sleep.

"I'm so sorry," Allen said, offering his hand, "I know we've been introduced, but I've been introduced to so many people that I still can't keep them straight. I'm Allen Walker."

"Johnny Gill," Johnny said, trying desperately to figure out how firm his handshake should be. Allen Walker, born with his Innocence, cursed by a Demon, apprenticed to the only Exorcist to wield two weapons, was rumored to be anything from a demon to a demi-god depending on who one talked to, but here he looked like a tired kid with a strange scar, a deformed arm, and a gentle smile.

"What do you do?" Allen asked.

"I work with the science department," Johnny said. "I'm also responsible for your uniforms. I hope yours fits," he added nervously. "I didn't take the measurements myself, so if you need any adjustments, please let me know and I'll take care of it."

"I wondered who made that," Allen said. "It was ready for me by morning. You must have worked all night on it."

Was that actually sympathy? "Ah…well, it's not unusual for us to work through the night." Johnny fished for some way of holding up his end of the conversation. "Are you settling in here all right?"

"Yes," Allen said. "Everyone's so nice."

"Nice?" Nice was not a word most people associated with the Order. Notorious for pulling the best and brightest from every field, it was populated by egomaniacs and workaholics, all of whom had more issues than the Daily Mirror.

Allen's smile broadened, and for the first time Johnny was hit with the full force of it, so intense that it made him blink. "Well, you made my uniform literally overnight," Allen said, "Jerry cooks everything perfectly, and the Finders are so helpful. It's like a family here."

"A family?" Johnny asked, incredulous, although now that he thought about it, the Order had a lot in common with his father.

"Well," Allen's smile took on a hint of self-deprecation. "It's a lot more like a family than my Master was."

The last time General Cross checked in, he'd blown through the place like a tornado, tearing up everything he touched before leaving a wake of rubble behind. Allen had just spent three years traveling with the man, and according to the rumors, he'd been an orphan before that. When it came to families, he would have no basis for comparison. "I'm glad you like it here," Johnny said. "The Order exists to support the Exorcists, so I'm glad you're settling in all right and everything." He was aware that he sounded foolish, but he had never been comfortable talking to people. It seemed that if there was a way to say things wrong, he found it, and then was left stammering apologies that were never really believed.

"I'm so glad I ran into you here," Allen said. "You put so much work into my uniform, and I'm happy for the chance to thank you properly."

It was so rare to hear any word of thanks in the Order, especially a word that worked its way down the ranks rather than up, that Johnny was afraid he was blushing. Then he realized that the heat of the bath would cover for him, and he let out a breath. It was so easy to forget that the Exorcists were just people, many of them still children, like this one who was in a new place and probably anxious to fit in, just as Johnny had once been.

Now that Johnny was relaxed enough to think clearly, he realized that the shape of Allen's body didn't quite match the measurements he'd been given. The shoulders he'd sewn had been too broad and the arms too long. "Are you sure your uniform fits?" he asked.

"It's fine," Allen said. "Maybe it's a little big, but I'll grow into it and I don't want to make more work for you."

How long had it been since someone offered to lessen Johnny's workload rather than add to it? "It's my job," he said. "I told Komui he should have let me take the measurements myself, but he didn't listen. It's not that Komui can't measure properly," Johnny added quickly, "it's that he doesn't understand that while having something a little big for everyday wear is one thing, the uniforms are different. You Exorcists have to be able to move freely, and you can't if your uniforms don't fit. I can let the seams out as you grow, so none of the work will be wasted."

"No, really," Allen said. "It's fine. In a few months, I'm sure it will be perfect."

Johnny smiled. For the first time, he thought maybe he could just say what he was thinking without fear of his listener taking things wrong. "If you don't bring it to me, I'll come looking for it."

Allen laughed. "In that case, I will. Thank you."

"Um…I don't suppose you play chess by any chance?" Johnny asked, emboldened by Allen's laughter.

"No. I think I know how the pieces are supposed to move, but I've never played. Do you?"

"Most of the Order does. I could teach you, if you like."

Allen's face lit up in that sun-bright smile. "I would like that. Thank you."

Allen turned out to be a terrible chess player, but he was funny when he lost and he didn't mind when Johnny laughed. Allen was the first person Johnny had met in the Order who liked making people laugh.

Now that Johnny's running, he doesn't get as tired anymore. He's eating more, sleeping better, and spending less time in the infirmary. He is also becoming more focused. He pays less attention to the muttering he hears, rumors about Allen that people will no longer repeat to his face. His mind is clearer than it's ever been.

When he's finished, he soaks in the bath, steaming the knots out of his muscles, then he goes back to his room. On a calendar on the wall, there are numbers in the spaces for each day until today, and he grabs a pencil to put in his distance and time. It's been the same for a week now. He's getting complacent. Tomorrow, he will push himself until he gets a stitch in his side.

He sets the pencil on the desk, and goes down to the cafeteria for dinner.


End file.
